


natural delights that lie ready to their hand

by Stacicity



Series: Jonah Fics [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Oral Sex, Trans Jonah Magnus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24095743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacicity/pseuds/Stacicity
Summary: Jonah and Barnabas reunite at the end of London's Season, and Barnabas has something new to show him.
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus, Jonah Magnus/Mordechia Lukas (mentioned)
Series: Jonah Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759540
Comments: 15
Kudos: 100
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus





	natural delights that lie ready to their hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dundee998](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dundee998/gifts).



> Jonah is trans and his genitalia are referred to as his cock and his slit in this.
> 
> Written for Dundee who is a gem and wanted Jonah & Barnabas on a picnic, and also Barnabas with a tongue piercing. I got 50% of it which is something at least!
> 
> This is pure self-indulgence and I will not apologise for it.

“Oh, you made it!” 

Jonah turns, hands in the pocket of his tweed trousers. They’re tailored, of course, but still somewhat uncomfortable, a style he’s not used to wearing. Barnabas looks as at ease as he always does, striding across the scrub with his fowling piece held carefully under one arm. It’s good to see him; they’ve been engaged in different circles for the last little while, just-missing each other in the frenzied last weeks of London’s Season.

“Of course,” Jonah replies. “It’s the twelfth of August, Barnabas, where else would I be?” 

The Glorious Twelfth. He’s never had cause to consider it before, but his brain is taken up now by the knowledge of the Season, dates and pastimes that have gone from peculiarities to necessities. If one wants to be engaged within society then one must follow its movements, and that means travel and action and intent, it means being seen at the right places and with the right people. 

It means, right now, standing in the Highlands in the pale morning light and pretending that he has done this all his life, that _any_ of this is familiar to him. 

If he had been a debutante, he’d have been lowered into the shallows of this new and glittering life, invited to soirees, ferried to the opera (and expected not to listen to a note), to the theatre (where he wouldn’t have heard a line) and given the arms and ears of fashionable young men.

He _is_ a debutante, in a strange sort of way. He just can’t allow anybody else to know it. 

So, over the last few months he has attended Ascot and the Summer Exhibition, sipped champagne in Henley-on-Thames and watched the rowboats go by, sat at Lord’s and tried to unpiece the minutiae of cricket. As if he cares. He doesn’t care a jot for this, for _any_ of these activities, but it’s not about the pastimes, it’s about the people. 

He is glad, at least, that he has established a firm enough circle that he can walk at Barnabas’ side and feel somewhat at home. 

Barnabas takes him by the elbow, pulls him merrily along to where Jonah knows the others are congregating and admiring the sweeping hills and rolling land of Mordechai’s estate. He is not surprised that Mordechai has placed it so far in the Highlands, well aside from most of the other hideaways that the rest of society will have flocked to, an escape from his actual pile in Kent that can be so _easy_ to drop in on if one is so inclined. Jonah is, sometimes; for all that he knows Mordechai enjoys his solitude, he has not once been turned away.

The heather up here is good; Jonah has been told that as well as grouse there are partridges and pheasants, red deer and badgers and foxes, otters and salmon in the river. A busy estate for such a solitary man. He thinks about sitting alone by the river and fishing and concedes that whilst it sounds _deathly_ dull, it could be pleasant enough in the right company, certainly preferable to tramping up and down the moors for mile upon mile and playing at sport with idiotic guns. 

Still. It is what is _done_ , and so he will do it, join the whole eclectic mass of Robert Smirke’s friends gathering with new suits and guns, hipflasks tucked away against their belts to stave off the cold. Even in mid-August the sun feels cold, but it is golden, and the light turns Barnabas’ hair chestnut and glints off his beaming smile. 

“Well, I understand that the morning is going to be a rather loose affair - we’ll walk and take the measure of the grounds, return for breakfast, and then get to the meat of it in the afternoon,” he murmurs, leaning into Jonah’s side a little as they walk. Jonah hums vague agreement as they crest the hill and see the grey stone of the manor itself, the gathering of gentlemen drinking hot brandy, hounds yapping and winding at their heels. He can see Robert chatting merrily away to Scott, Mordechai off to the side having a word with a gentleman that must be one of the gamekeepers. Jonah sucks in his breath, holds it a second, and then turns to Barnabas. 

“If there’s not to be much sport in the morning then I think I’ll forgo carrying my gun around,” he says nonchalantly. Easier that than to admit that the damn thing is heavy and cumbersome and he has none of Barnabas’ grace in carrying it like it’s an extension of himself. “I’ll enjoy the walk better unencumbered.” 

“If you like,” Barnabas says easily. “It is a very beautiful estate.”

“Mm. I thought I might take in the boundaries of it, meet the others back for breakfast.” 

“Oh?” Barnabas tilts his head towards Jonah a little, curious. “Would you like company?” 

Jonah smiles. There is mist over the moors and it seems blasphemous, somewhat, heretical, to admit to wanting company in Mordechai’s estate. He slides his hand down to curl his fingers around Barnabas’ wrist, a light hold, just there for the briefest of moments. 

“Generally speaking, Mr Bennett, no. Just yours.” 

Nothing more need be said. Barnabas returns to his rooms to put away his shotgun and Jonah moves easily amongst the little throng - a hand on Robert’s arm in greeting, an aside to Scott, a nod to Dr Fanshawe. Dr Fanshawe who watches him, sometimes, like he is one of his specimens, like he is a fascination and a curio, something to be preserved and kept behind glass. 

Jonah thinks he sees a kindred spirit in him, sometimes. It makes him dangerous. 

He feels Mordechai’s eyes on the back of his neck and smiles to himself, doesn’t turn around. It’s a give and take, and he is standing quite literally on Mordechai’s turf. If he wants to approach him, then Jonah will let him do so, but he will let him do so in his own time and under his own steam. It’s a small courtesy, but one which he thinks Mordechai will appreciate. 

When Barnabas returns he slots himself merrily into the conversation, standing at Jonah’s side. The back of his fingers brush Jonah’s hand - he has taken off his leather shooting gloves and Jonah startles, briefly, at the warmth of his skin, wonders if his palms would still smell of leather. He leaves it to Barnabas to make their excuses, something about taking in the country air now that they’re well out of the smog of the city, promising that they’ll be back for breakfast (as is only right and proper) and then setting them off towards the hill again in the opposite direction from where the shooters will be going. 

It is likely a poor choice to escape with Barnabas when the whole point of being here is to be _seen,_ but it is not solely for his benefit. Barnabas conducts himself with charm and good-humour but it has not escaped Jonah’s notice how frequently he seeks to divide groups where possible and limit his interactions to just one or two gentlemen, how he tends to shy from crowds. He is more comfortable in less company, and Jonah can excuse this detour to himself as an act of charity, giving Barnabas an excuse for some time away from the throng. 

“It’s so _quiet_ here,” Barnabas sighs as they walk, and Jonah smiles, shakes his head, reaches to his hip to retrieve his flask and warm himself through with a nip of brandy, offering it out for Barnabas to take it from him. 

“Nowhere is ever quiet when you’re around,” he replies, mainly because he knows Barnabas, and he knows that that will make him laugh and cry out in mock-outrage, take advantage of their solitude to catch him around the waist and tug him closer to his chest. 

He could do all of that himself, of course. But it’s easier to lay out those words and know that Barnabas will follow the cues he’s set. Jonah leans back into his grip, just for a moment, before batting at his hands. “Oh, unhand me, you brute, or we’ll never get anywhere.” 

“Very well; I shall save my revenge for your callous words for another time,” Barnabas tuts and lets him go, leading them onwards until Jonah can see the smear of the river blurring against the horizon backed by a dark thicket of trees. 

“Revenge, Mr Bennett?” 

“Oh, yes. Most violent and sudden. I shall take you when you’re least expecting it.” 

“Shall you, indeed.” Jonah slips his hands into his pockets. 

“Most assuredly, Jonah. I shall come in the night.” 

“It is a source of perpetual shock to me that you have not yet been arrested for indecency.” 

“Perhaps I have. Would you like to see me clapped in irons and held up as an example of a fallen man?” Barnabas’ eyes are bright. They are walking slowly, a respectable amble through the dewsoaked heather, following what seems to be an old bridlepath towards the river. From a distance they would look to be nothing more than companions. Jonah looks away to hide his smile and considers that for all he is a ridiculous, debauched mess of a man, he is growing rather fond of Barnabas Bennett. 

“I should prefer to see you repentant.” 

“Ah, yes,” Barnabas nods sagely. “On my knees, I’m sure.” 

“As is only proper.” 

Barnabas’ hand is at the small of his back. Jonah turns his head a little to catch his face from the corner of his eye, notes the twitch of his lips, the banked excitement on his face. “What has you so excitable?” he asks, curious despite himself, and Barnabas’ smile splits into a delighted, sheepish grin. 

“Perhaps I have something to show you.” 

“Oh?” 

“Something that requires some privacy.” 

“ _Ah_.” 

Well, what can Jonah do in response to that but follow? He has an idea of where Barnabas’ mind might be wandering, yes, but this fancy normally steals upon him when the wine has been flowing, when they have been dancing, when he can sit on the floor and rest his cheek against Jonah’s thigh and drown out some of the noise. It is a strange thing to be confronted with it in the morning sunlight before breakfast, the air still hazy with mist. 

Not unpleasant, mind. And Jonah is not terribly surprised when they crest the first hill, then the second, and then a third before Barnabas stops, taking a breath and turning a little to examine the view. There is not much cover on a moor but they are well out of view of Mordechai’s house, and Jonah cannot see another person for miles, just league upon league of purple-blooming heather and blue hills behind it. Barnabas sits and Jonah raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed, eyeing the damp ground. 

“I must say this isn’t quite the interlude I’d expected. I’m not going back to breakfast with my trousers damp.” 

“I suppose you’d better take them off, then,” Barnabas replies in a reasonable sort of tone. “Or come and sit on me instead, and I’ll keep you dry.” 

“You are-” Jonah crouches, sets one hand on Barnabas’ knee, his other against his shoulder, “in quite a forward mood today.” 

“I-” Barnabas replies, leaning in until Jonah can smell the brandy on his breath, warm and sweet, “have missed you awfully. Weeks without the pleasure of your company, barely a few letters by which to remember you-”

“Oh, _come_ , now-”

“And perhaps I am eager that we become reacquainted.” 

“You are certainly eager.” Jonah can’t help but be charmed, though. Quite aside from any thoughts of his own fondness for Barnabas, it is sensible that he make himself notable, that people miss his absence within society when he is not there. It is indicative of a job well done, and that satisfaction settles in his chest like an ember. 

“Will you lie down with me, Jonah?” Barnabas asks, eyes trailing to Jonah’s lips, and up, and down again, settling his hand over Jonah’s where it rests against his knee. 

“Not where it’s wet.” 

“Ah, well - if I must play the gallant-” Barnabas rises, Jonah leaning back to accommodate him and watching bemusedly as he takes off his jacket, lays it carefully on the ground. “There. Will you lie with me now?” 

“Do you insist upon it?” 

“No.” Barnabas smiles, settles himself back down next to his jacket, arms resting on his propped knees and chin on his folded hands. “But I should like it very much.” 

It is difficult to be detached around Barnabas, far more so than it should be. Jonah listens to the breeze through the heather for a moment, confirms that yes, they are alone, that nobody is coming over the hill to find them. He settles himself on Barnabas’ jacket, the heavy tweed enough to keep the dampness at bay for now, and lets Barnabas wrap an arm around him to pull him into his side. He handles him like something fragile, something delicate, and Jonah can never be quite sure how he feels about that. 

“I did miss you terribly,” Barnabas murmurs into his hair, soft as the wind, pressing his lips to the hinge of his jaw. Jonah considers what they must look like, pressed close, young lovers on a heath, Barnabas’ arm around him and his lips at his temple, clasped together and quite alone. Barnabas, he thinks, has been reading far too much poetry. But his arm is warm around him and Jonah turns his head to look at him properly. 

“And you thought you’d spirit me off into the moorland next time you saw me, is that it? Catch me unawares?” 

“You know what they say, Jonah, a bird in hand-” Barnabas grins and Jonah rolls his eyes so hard they ache for a moment, considers standing upon his dignity and starting off again. Instead he feels Barnabas cup a hand at the nape of his neck, dew-damp and cool, and reaches up to rest his hand against his chest. 

“Tell me what has you so het up, Barnabas, or I’ll leave you here to get damp on your own.” 

“May I show you?” 

He is bold, Barnabas, but he uses courtesy like a fine tool when it pleases him, holds it as easily as his shotgun. Jonah wars with himself briefly, still sorely tempted to leave him here - it will be all the sweeter when he feels Barnabas’ eyes on him, hears him steal into his chambers later - but curiosity wins out and he nods, rewarded immediately with Barnabas’ sunbeam smile. 

“Well, then-” Barnabas slides his hand around to Jonah’s cheek and he is gentle, _achingly_ gentle, like Jonah is a pencil drawing he is afraid to smudge but cannot help but touch. The first brush of his lips is petal-soft and Jonah sighs into it, leans into Barnabas’ chest for the now-familiar press of lips to his, first tender and soon-deepened, Jonah’s lips parting easily until his tongue meets with the wholly-unfamiliar sensation of something cool and solid and he jolts backwards, startled. 

“What in God’s name-”

“Ah!” Barnabas looks thrilled, hands against Jonah’s arms to settle him. “There it is-”

“What _have_ you done to yourself?” Jonah peers closer, curious despite himself and - yes, there against Barnabas’ tongue (which he obligingly sticks out for him) is a little stud buried against the muscle, bright and silver and new. 

“Our mutual acquaintance Dr Fanshawe was good enough to help me with it,” Barnabas tells him when Jonah has finished his inspection and Jonah tilts his head, considering. 

“Whatever for?” 

“Curiosity, largely. The good doctor was very educational on the subject.” Barnabas is running his hands up and down his arm, slipping them under the shoulders of his jacket and glancing at Jonah for permission before sliding his jacket from his back altogether, rubbing his arms before any of the chill can set in for long. “He says that there was a French queen who did the same to her nipples so as to enhance the sensation in them.” 

“Oh.” Jonah imagines Barnabas’ nipples set through with silver and finds the thought startling and appealing in equal measure, trails his hand down the line of Barnabas’ waistcoat where it meets his cravat with a thoughtful look. “And do you find your sensation enhanced?” 

“Mm. It’s hard to describe. But my hope, Jonah, was that it might enhance yours.” 

Jonah frowns, leans back again and gives Barnabas the flintiest look he can muster. “If you’ve brought me here with a needle and some piecemeal plan to run me through-”

“No! No, heavens- you’re quite safe from me and my designs.”

“I doubt that _very_ much.” 

“Will you let me show you?” 

Jonah heaves a sigh, thinks irritably that by the time they get back to the manor their clothes will be wrinkled beyond repair. Perhaps if they make it in good time they might beat the shooters back, though, and there’ll be time enough to make themselves decent again. It’s an acceptable risk, more or less. 

“I should have thought a bedroom would be a more appropriate venue for this,” he says coolly, and Barnabas tuts. 

“Why, Mr Magnus, where is your sense of adventure? Don’t you think it’s romantic out here alone in the heather? Like travellers in an undiscovered land.” 

“Hardly _undiscovered_ ,” Jonah snorts, but he’s already letting Barnabas nudge him back to lie down on his spread jacket, the wool scratching against his cheek and smelling of Barnabas when he turns his head, sure hands on his cheek, his ribs, unbuttoning his trousers. “Discovered by every groundskeeper from here to the Cairngorms, more like - really, a pair of breeks and a gun in hand and you’ve turned into a fool.” 

“ _Breeks_ ,” Barnabas echoes delightedly, imitating the roll of Jonah’s tongue against the r while he busies himself with untucking his shirt from his trousers and pressing kisses to his stomach where the skin is bared. “I am merely taken with the moment. You might be, if you let yourself.” 

Well, perhaps. The heather is high enough that when Jonah turns his head he can’t see much but purple blossoms and the brightening sun shining against the scrub. They might as well be the only two for miles. He reaches down to slide his fingers through Barnabas’ hair, pausing him in his motions and tugging him up over him. 

“Keep mocking my voice, Barnabas, and I’ll _let_ myself leave you here.” 

“Oh, now, Jonah-” Barnabas laughs, lowers himself to pepper apologetic kisses to Jonah’s neck, applying his tongue to the sensitive skin of his neck gently until Jonah shivers at the press of unfamiliar metal there. A stud, just a stud, but he can’t help but imagine a blade. Not in Barnabas’ hands, mind, but someone else’s - ah, there are so many he knows that would quite cheerfully put a blade to his neck. “You know I’m utterly charmed by how you talk.”

“ _Hush_ ,” Jonah mutters, clamping his vowels tight and clipped and forward, thinks _haud yer wheesht_ and banishes it to the back of his mind with the rest of the slang he has so carefully and utterly forgotten. 

“Just as you say,” Barnabas sighs. At least he is good enough to abandon a topic when bid, and it’s hard to stay too cross with deft fingers at the buttons of his trousers, Barnabas sliding his free hand up under his shirt and over his skin, brushing his fingertips against one of Jonah’s nipples. “A little barbell, I think, right here - I’m sure Dr Fanshawe would be most obliging-”

“Then he can be obliging and do it to _you_.” 

“Well, why not both? Lift yourself up for me a moment, chuck, I’d like to-” Barnabas breaks off as Jonah sits up, straddling his hips comfortably to undo his waistcoat, his cravat, to unlace his shirt, folding the former two pieces carefully at a beady glare from Jonah and settling them safely on top of his folded jacket where they won’t be stained. He presses his lips to Jonah’s collarbone, one arm sliding to the small of his back as he lowers him back down to the covered ground, smooth fingers against smoother skin. 

_Chuck_. When had he let this happen, this familiarity, this intimacy? Jonah tips his head back at the barest graze of teeth against his collarbone where the skin is thinnest, smooths Barnabas’ hair back from his face. He won’t bite him, not unless he’s asked to. Barnabas would prefer to have him in perfumed sheets and sunlit valleys than roughly and without ceremony. He is always reverent in his touches, a supplicant for all of his teasing and boldness, and Jonah is content to leave it that way. If he fancies harsher treatment there are other hands for that, and there is a lovely innocence to how Barnabas touches him, sweet and tender, as if it is still the first time, as if he thinks it may be the last. 

Barnabas’ tongue against his chest, his nipple, is not unfamiliar, but the firmness of the stud very much is, and Jonah arches under Barnabas with a little gasp. “Or a ring,” Barnabas says softly, muffled by his skin, “so I could do this-” he catches Jonah’s nipple lightly between his teeth and pulls until he squirms, a moan caught and held tight to the back of his throat with all of the rhotic sounds he suppresses.

“You- _ah_ \- you seem to be managing well enough without. You’ll just have to convince me further,” he breathes, and Barnabas laughs, gives over to look at Jonah with dancing eyes and a blush in his cheeks. There’s a pause, there, a breath. Jonah touches his cheek, cups it in his hand and smooths his thumb under his eye. “Come on. Hurry up before you’re hunted down with the rest of the beasts,” he mutters, patting the ground next to him until Barnabas shifts with a little sigh of anticipation, turning himself sidelong until his cheek is resting against Jonah’s leg and Jonah can reach out to feel the firm line of him through his tweeds. 

He feels an impatient tug at his trousers, lifts his hips carefully to accommodate as Barnabas tugs them down properly, bared to the mild air. When he rolls onto his side Barnabas curls his hand around his hip, just for a moment, before moving it down to touch him where he is, yes, soaked and aching, dragging his fingers against his slit and brushing oh-so-gently against his cock. 

Somewhere out on the moors there are other men walking and laughing and shooting, but all Jonah can hear down here is the wind and the rustle of the heather, the helpless sound Barnabas makes when Jonah unbuttons his trousers and slips a hand in to free him, hot and twitching against his hand. It’s a welcome little oasis and Jonah closes his eyes to give himself over to it, curling his hand to give Barnabas a few long, slow strokes, twisting his wrist because he knows it will make him gasp, feels the rush of air pulled in against his thigh. 

“Weren’t you supposed to be showing me something?” Jonah teases, and feels that air all pushed back in a huff, Barnabas lifting his head to try and peer up at him. 

“In my own time, Jonah, I can hardly be expected to work under these condit- _oh_ …” Jonah, of course, chooses that moment to set his tongue against the head of Barnabas’ cock. If he didn’t have the head of it in his mouth he would grin, but that sort of thing is a threat he saves for other parties so he contents himself with a warm, satisfied hum deep in his chest, setting himself to his task. 

It’s nearly impossible not to jump at the first brush of that stud against his cock and Jonah has to suck in a sharp breath through his nose or risk choking entirely, the feeling of Barnabas’ yielding tongue giving way to something utterly uncompromising, firm and abrupt. He swallows hard, pausing to regain his composure, and decides quickly that if he is to end this with any dignity at all he’d best get a move on. It wouldn’t do to have Barnabas undo him quite so quickly, but he can feel Barnabas’ _smile_ , and there’s no sense hiding that reaction from him. 

“ _There_ you are,” Barnabas croons, runs the flat of his tongue against Jonah’s cock again to make his thighs quiver, tenses it so he can rub the little stud against him until Jonah can’t hold any sound back, has to whine and squeeze his eyes shut. “ _God_ , Jonah,” Barnabas breathes - reverent again - and bends his head properly, the two of them one little circle of debauchery and muffled cries, ringed in the heather like a fairy circle. 

Barnabas is silk-soft and steel-hard against his tongue and every time Jonah feels himself getting into a familiar rhythm he is thrown entirely off by a flick of that _damn_ stud against him, every one making him jolt or gasp, working him jerkily up to a peak and leaving him quite dazed as he buries his fingers against Barnabas’ hip, whining high in his throat rather than pulling his head away. It is a good thing, really, that he has his mouth full - aside from keeping him quieter, it keeps him from pleading. 

“Here?” Barnabas whispers, setting his fingers against Jonah’s slit, and Jonah nods as best he can, enjoys how wrecked and shaky Barnabas’ voice sounds for just a second before promptly forgetting all rational thought at the first press of a finger into him, swiftly followed by a second, Barnabas crooking them just so and flicking his tongue so the stud rubs against his cock with unerring accuracy. 

Jonah shudders apart against him and he hears Barnabas’ ecstatic little moan at it as if he’d been the one to finish, feels him twitch in his mouth and holds on tighter until he hears Barnabas crying his name (the _fool_ , even then Jonah has a flash of fear that they’ll be discovered) and the flood of bitter heat at the back of his tongue. 

When he lifts his head they are alone, still, the rolling hills around them quite undisturbed. The sun has risen fully to burn away the mist and Jonah squints up at it, listens to the sound of Barnabas tugging himself around to rest his head against his thigh where Jonah can stroke his hair.

“Shall I tell Dr Fanshawe that you approve?” Barnabas asks softly, giggles at the sharper pull that that comment gets him and apologises with a kiss to Jonah’s bare thigh. “You look very dashing in your tweeds. Better like this, though.” 

“I look undone, I’m sure,” Jonah grumbles, looks down to see Barnabas and laughs despite himself, a quick little bark of sound. “Oh, but not as much as _you_ do.” Grass-stained and dishevelled, his lips and chin still shining a little. Barnabas grins, quite unrepentant, and Jonah looks down at himself to confirm that he will pass muster should they meet anybody on their way back. “You look like you’ve been dragged head-first down a hill.” 

“I feel it a bit, too,” Barnabas murmurs. “You look like you have a halo, with the sun behind you.” 

Ridiculous, sentimental fool. Jonah smiles and jiggles his leg until Barnabas moves, reassembles himself. Trousers, shirt, cravat, waistcoat, jacket - each piece of the armour sliding back into place. He picks drying autumn grass out of his hair with a sigh and casts another critical eye over Barnabas. 

“You’ll need to change before breakfast or you’ll offend our host.” 

“Oh, hang him,” Barnabas huffs impatiently, and Jonah shakes his head, shifts to a stand so he can pass Barnabas his jacket. 

“You ought to pay him more mind.”

Barnabas just shrugs, and Jonah doesn’t press the issue, knows better than to step between those two and risk being caught in the crossfire. Instead he slips his hands into his pockets and looks out over the hills. “Come along. We’ll sneak in through the back.” 

It does feel like another world, a private space. Barnabas steals one more kiss when he is dressed and Jonah slides his arms around his waist, holds him against him for just a moment before they return once more to the fray.

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes!
> 
>   * The title comes from the Village Diary by Miss Read, from a paragraph in which the delights of the countryside are espoused. 
>   * The Season: describes the movements of society over the course of the year. In essence, in the spring & summer debutantes (were presented at court and thus entered high society as eligible young women rather than as children) and high society families would move from their country estates to London to take part in grand events, balls, the opera, the theatre, and generally find matche for one another. On the Glorious Twelfth of August (the official start of the Shooting Season) they would return to the country, and you'd have hunting, shooting & fishing all through the winter, as well as reeling and other winter balls depending on your social circle, all of which would take place in the country. So a well-off family would have a country estate and a London residence so that they could take part in all of it. 
>   * Piercings: piercings have been around for a while (the French queen referenced here is Queen Isabeau of Bavaria, 1385-1417). I'm led to understand that in Victorian England doctors recommended nipple piercings to some women on the basis that it increased the size of the nipple and areola and thus made breast-feeding easier, but this might just be conjecture. Whether anyone was 69-ing on a grouse moor with a tongue piercing is a topic that the scholars have thus far been quiet on.
> 

> 
> [Find me on tumblr](https://ajcrawly.tumblr.com) and talk to me about Jonah Magnus and his circle of regency bastards! Comments & kudos soothe my itching soul.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] natural delights that lie ready to their hand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25152943) by [Autodidact](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autodidact/pseuds/Autodidact)




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